


Until He Says You're Not

by tristesses



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Bloodplay, Bondage, Dom/sub, F/M, Mirror Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 21:03:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is less than a romance, more than an arrangement, and something like a courtship, all conducted under the watchful gaze of the Terran Empire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until He Says You're Not

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on 9/10/2009.
> 
> There is murder and attempted rape in this fic*, though neither are (IMO) deserving of archive warnings. Still, please read with caution.
> 
> *not between Sarek and Amanda.

I.  
He wraps long fingers around her wrist roughly and pins it to the bed, paying no attention to the delicate bones that creak under his strong grasp; she'll have bracelets of deep purple-blue bruises tomorrow, but that's precisely what she wants - to be marked. She tosses her head back as he slams into her, baring the elegant column of her throat; his mouth finds it, biting until he draws blood, red and strange, he licks it from her neck, adjusts his angle, thrusts in again, eliciting a cry from her as she rolls her hips to accompany his movement.

"No," he hisses in her ear, "you will not move." And he grabs her hips with his other hand, holding her immobile, and she struggles not to writhe as he fucks her into the mattress. By the time he comes, she is whimpering; by the time he finishes her off, his fingers hard and rough inside her, pinching at her clit mercilessly, she is crying.

"Was that serviceable?" he asks her afterward, which makes her smile; she can already tell he's a gentleman at heart. Most men, Vulcan or not, would never have cared.

"Extremely," she replies, switching from Vulcan to a Rihannsu dialect somewhat rare in this sector of space. "Was I?"

"You will do," he answers equitably, in the same dialect.

"Does this mean I have the job?" She switches languages again, now speaking in the sensual sibilance of the Orion tongue.

"As I said," he rumbles, pulling her on top of him easily - she's small and delicate by human standards, a doll compared to his strength - "you will do."

 

II.  
As the chief translator for the Vulcan Ambassador, a position she gained despite her age and gender, Amanda is certain she'll have enemies; many would kill to be in her place, where they could whisper secrets and ideas into the Ambassador's ear, and be privy to the inner clockwork that holds Vulcan together. Sarek favors her, though, and makes it clear to all that he will not promote her murderer into her position, an unusual stance in this Empire. He's probably the only thing that prevents her from an early grave. Of course, this doesn't mean that she is free from unpleasantness; her enemies just have to get more inventive now.

She does not expect the ambush in her office. It's extraordinarily daring, even a little stupid, but it works; she's taken completely by surprise, Sobal grabbing her by the collar of her modest dress and yanking her out of her chair, Wilkinson kicking her viciously in the stomach. Amanda grunts in pain, and lunges for her desk, fingers scrabbling at the underside for the knife she has tucked there in case of situations just like this. Too late; Sobal hauls her upright and shoves her into the desk, the hard wood smacking against her hipbones. Amanda has one moment to consider struggling before Sobal grasps her by the crown of her head and cracks her face against the desk. A sunburst of pain opens on her forehead, and she cries out; he does it again, and this time she can actually hear the sickening crunch of her skull fracturing. The resultant bloom of hurt leaves her limp and senseless; she knows she should fight back, but it's too much. Might as well just lie there and take it, let them get it out of their system.

Sobal steps to the side, and Wilkinson takes his place, shoving a knee between her legs, forcing them apart.

"Little bitch," he sneers, and pushes her skirts up to her waist, squeezing her bare thighs; she imagines his fingers leaving trails like slugs. "Think you can fuck your way to the top? I'll show you a thing or two about that, give you what you deserve - "

It happens so quickly Amanda is barely aware of it. Sobal freezes, holds up his hand in warning, and then Wilkinson slumps against her back, a victim of the nerve pinch; Sarek tosses him to the floor as if he were so much refuse, and turns to Sobal. The younger Vulcan drops to his knees, head bowed submissively.

"Ambassador, I apologize." His voice is even, perfectly controlled; Amanda hates him, suddenly and primitively. "I did not realize she was yours - "

"You lie." Sarek is cold, standing absolutely still. "You bring shame upon your House. Give me your agonizer."

Sobal unclips it from his robe without further comment, and hands it to Sarek; he activates it and sets it on the desk, turning to Amanda. Sobal writhes in pain on the floor, not screaming, but mouth open in a rictus of agony.

"Have you contacted security?" Sarek inquires, as if this were a standard problem.

"No," Amanda rasps. "Haven't had time."

"Do so now."

Amanda gropes for the computer, locating the communicator button by touch. "Security to Grayson's office," she says, and shuts her eyes; her head is throbbing. At her feet, Wilkinson stirs and groans. "There's been an attack."

Amanda pushes herself upright and wobbles a bit, and Sarek touches the small of her back, balancing her carefully, his touch almost comforting. She tugs her skirts down, and leans against the desk. Sarek drops his hand and observes her.

"I trust you at least attempted to defend yourself?" he asks dryly.

"Emphasis on attempted," she replies. "They're both considerably stronger than me." Wilkinson's trying to sit up; she looks at him for a moment, then stomps on his hand. His yelp is satisfying. "Thank you, by the way."

"It would be illogical to allow the most efficient translator in the Embassy become distressed. Your work could suffer, and I prefer you when you're useful."

Amanda studies him, wondering what he really means, but his face is blank and smooth, as usual. He looks over her shoulder, and remarks, "The security team has arrived."

Amanda steps delicately out of the way as one beefy guard drags Wilkinson away; two others surround Sobal, who's passed out from the pain - Sarek had never turned the agonizer off, and the ones at the Embassy are specially tuned for Vulcan physiology.

"Orders, sir?" asks one of the guards, and Amanda has never been as surprised as when Sarek looks at her, clearly inviting her to answer.

"Uh - " She doesn't know the standard punishment for attempted rape on Vulcan. "Two hours in the agony booth?"

"Yes, ma'am," the guard says, and turns to leave.

"Four hours," Sarek says, overruling her order. "On level six."

"Yes, sir," replies the guard, looking startled, and drags the two miscreants out of her office. Amanda looks at Sarek. He looks back.

"Was my idea not enough?" she asks, curious.

"It was adequate." Sarek does not elaborate. Instead, he raises his hand to her face, fingers ghosting over the knot of split flesh and coagulated blood on her forehead; Amanda turns her face toward his hand, almost instinctively. Such behavior could be punishable by a slap, or even a jolt with the agonizer - it's not her place to make advances - but Sarek does not pull his hand away.

"Go to a doctor," he orders, his voice low. "When you have been healed, return to work."

"Yes, sir," she whispers, and immediately misses the heat of his hand on her face as he steps back. His exit leaves her bereft, and she stands still for a moment, still a little woozy, wondering why she's reacting this way to his touch.

It's obvious, really, but she doesn't make the connection until she's making her way back to her office from sickbay, skull completely healed and the incident dismissed - it isn't the first of its kind, and it won't be the last. She's utterly foolish - her romanticism will get her killed one day - but Amanda's not the sort of person to deny her feelings once she's aware of them. She'll never speak of them; she may be in love with Sarek, but there's no place for such a sentiment in his world, where emotion is burned out and excised as a contaminant is from a wound.

She can't concentrate on her work; she's fidgety, she keeps going back to his hand on her face, the memory of the first time he fucked her, and she replays that scene in vivid detail until she's wet, pressing her thighs together, clenching her muscles painfully tight. She checks the door; it's shut, presumably locked, although that doesn't mean much, since it's terrifyingly easy to hack low-level programs like hers. Still, it offers some privacy…

Amanda sets her PADD on the desk. She wouldn't do this if she wasn't ahead in her work, she promises herself, although how true that statement is, she's not quite sure. Wriggling a little, she hikes her skirts up to mid-thigh, enough to slip a hand between the fabric and her skin. Splaying her legs, leaning over her desk in a feeble effort to conceal her actions, Amanda strokes along the synthetic cotton of her underwear, tracing patterns with her nails. But there is no time for teasing; she needs to be done, quickly, before anyone catches her. Tugging the fabric out of the way, she slides a finger along her folds, gasping a little, so slick and wet, finding her clit easily and circling it with the pad of her index finger. She bites her lip; her eyes half-close.

"So good," she whispers, and increases the pressure and speed, rubbing hard against herself, seeking friction. "Ah, _god._ "

She isn't nearly stupid enough to moan his name aloud, but her lips shape the word _Sarek_ as her hips jerk and she comes, too fast and not nearly as hard as she'd like; she slumps over her work for a moment, composing herself, before sitting back up, cleaning her hand off, and picking up her PADD. Back to work.

In his own office, Sarek stares unblinkingly at the vidscreen he has trained on Amanda Grayson's desk. She's finished, now, poring over her PADD as if she hadn't taken ten minutes off for gratuitous self-gratification. Not that he's complaining, necessarily; she is beautiful, by both human and Vulcan standards, and there is much he could do with his knowledge of her lust for him.

Sarek finds he is disinclined to abuse his power, however; his sentiment regarding Amanda Grayson has changed from vague interest into something much more pointed and particular. It is most perplexing.

Sarek flicks off the viewscreen and sits back in his chair thoughtfully. He has much to consider.

 

III.  
The knife is edged and dangerous against Amanda's ankle, tucked into her boot; she should have sprung for the scabbard, and not just wrapped it in a skein of silk. It doesn't matter, though; the knife is crafted out of neutronium, the sharpest edge money can buy, and it will do its job admirably. It's not like she chose it for the comfort level anyway.

She lets her eyes wander down the table, observing all the people talking and drinking; it's truly an honor to be here, at an Ambassadorial banquet for all members of the Empire, even if it's as a servant. The air is thick with scheming and machinations, and she's certain she's not the only potential assassin here tonight.

Sarek sits with his bondmate, the princess T'Perr; Amanda studies her, looking for weak points, examining the complexities of her traditional Vulcan garb. It would be hard to run or fight in that thing, she's practically laced into it, and Amanda doubts she can bend her spine at all. It would explain why she isn't eating. That's good; it means she might be weaker than she would be on a full stomach, but of course, hunger might also make her faster. There's got to be something that can throw her off-balance; maybe if Amanda can find a way to slip chocolate in her drink.

As Amanda steps forward to refill the wineglass of the human sitting three seats down from T'Perr, she wonders when she became so cold. Once she swore she'd never murder for power or position; she'd thought she would never have the strength of will to do it.

Perhaps, though, she's willing to murder for things she _really_ wants.

Amanda carries the decanter back into the kitchen, where she places it in the synthesizer to be refilled. After a moment's thought, she programs it to add a chocolate liqueur to the mixture, something subtle enough to be almost unnoticed under the strong taste of the Andorian wine.

"What are you thinking?" murmurs the Denobulan servant beside her, a woman called Indaura who typically works in the Embassy gardens. Amanda's somewhat acquainted with her, well enough to joke about the difficulties of serving at these functions.

"I'm plotting," Amanda whispers back, and Indaura grins. She probably doesn't take Amanda seriously; Amanda's notoriously unambitious. Except, again, when it comes to those things she really wants.

Amanda carries the decanter, now spiked with chocolate, back into the main hall, and steps to refill the cup of the Andorian next to the Vulcan princess. As she does, she asks T'Perr politely, "Would you enjoy another glass of wine, my lady?"

T'Perr barely glances at her before saying yes; Amanda notices she's drained her cup, whereas the glasses of the other Vulcans at the table remain full. She must be bored silly, or extremely nervous. Amanda pours the wine, noticing suddenly that it's a shade darker than it's technically supposed to me; her hand wavers before she gets control of herself, and Sarek peers at her, arching one eyebrow questioningly. Amanda raises hers right back, and he sits back, apparently satisfied.

Three cupfuls of spiked wine later, just when Amanda was starting to get antsy, T'Perr excuses herself. No one acknowledges her, and she exits the hall, remarkably contained for how drunk she really is. Amanda scurries back into the kitchen, hands her decanter to Indaura, and whispers, "Cover for me for a bit, okay? I'll pay you back."

"Forty credits," Indaura whispers back immediately; a little steep, but Amanda can afford it. She nods in agreement and slips out of the kitchen, following T'Perr unobtrusively as the Vulcan stumbles onto a back patio.

For a moment, Amanda stares at the princess, silhouetted by the moonlight, swaying slightly; she kneels silently, and fumbles with the knife as she pulls it from her boot.

"Who's there?" T'Perr snaps, whirling around and nearly falling over, catching herself on the balcony. "Reveal yourself!"

Amanda rises slowly, holding the knife behind her back. Every sense is pinpointed on T'Perr now; the outline of her body seems remarkably clear, the spice she wears as a perfume overwhelming. Amanda's pulse is throbbing in her skull; her stomach feels full of fluttering moths.

"Oh, the servant," T'Perr says dismissively. "I assume Sarek sent you to ensure I am well?"

"Exactly, my lady," Amanda says, stepping forward, shifting the knife in her sweaty palm, wrapping her fingers firmly around the hilt. "He wanted me to give you a message."

T'Perr arches an eyebrow. "What message would that be?"

Amanda doesn't say anything; she doesn't think she can. Instead, she brings the knife down hard in T'Perr's chest, cracking the sternum before remembering that the Vulcan heart doesn't lay where it does in humans. She struggles to pull the knife loose, and T'Perr's hand grips her wrist tightly.

"You _dare,_ " says the princess, outraged, her voice breathy with pain, and Amanda yanks away from her grasp and plunges the dagger into her side, puncturing the heart. T'Perr's hands clutch her chest, smearing blood across her fine dress, and she reaches to grapple with Amanda's face, seeking eyes or some other soft thing she can tear at. Amanda steps back nimbly, and T'Perr grasps at the air before falling to her knees.

 _End her misery,_ Amanda thinks incoherently - she's shaking all over, and maybe crying, although that just might be T'Perr's blood on her face - and steps behind the Vulcan, and slits her throat. It offers little resistance. Hot green blood gushes out over her hands, almost spurting, and Amanda drops the knife as T'Perr gurgles. She stumbles back, into a tree, and barely manages to bend over before she vomits.

She kneels beside the tree, hyperventilating, for almost five minutes before she gets herself under control. She has to clean up, can't be seen covered in blood like this, so she strips off her outer layer of clothes and uses her shirt to wipe away the ichor from her face and hands. She leaves those clothes in a pile; the authorities will dispense of it when they find it. There's no need to worry about identification, they won't prosecute unless there were witnesses. They never do.

Amanda makes her way back to the kitchen, still trembling a bit, but now with an adrenaline rush that leaves her grinning manically. When Indaura sees her, she gasps, and Amanda catches a glimpse of herself in the convex glass of the decanter: she's haggard and her skin is streaked with green. It's under her nails, too; she wonders if she'll ever wash it off.

Regardless, it was worth it.

"What happened? What did you do?" gasps Indaura, hands fluttering around her face in shock.

"I took out the trash," Amanda responds, a hint of hysteria in her voice, and goes to the industrial synthesizer to create a new set of clothes.

 

IV.  
"Amanda, come to my office," Sarek says. She jumps; she hadn't even heard the door to her office open. She glances at him, but his face is granite; she's spent the past three days since the banquet on the edge, wishing he'd at least react to the death of his bondmate, even if it's not in a way that's good for her, but no, he's been stoic the entire time.

"I'll be there in a moment, sir," she says, saving her data on the PADD and beginning to exit her programs.

"Now, Amanda." Sarek leaves, but she can hear his footsteps in the hall. She swallows, and rises to follow.

Sarek's office is large and sparse, entirely lacking in decoration but for an ornamental sword, a relic of Vulcan's early days, perched on the wall.

"Enter and close the door." He stands before his desk, terribly still, observing her as she carries out his orders. Excitement wars with nervousness in her nerves; she can't predict his movement or moods, she doesn't know what he's going to do with her. _To_ her.

With two long strides, he stands in front of her; her body tenses, and her lips part. She stares at him.

He cups her face, and she flushes at the contact. Strokes her cheekbone with his thumb, and suddenly his mind brushes against hers, and she can _sense_ him - he savors the feel of her delicate flesh beneath his sensitive fingers (he could kill her so easily); he thinks she looks filthy like this, innocence on her face but not in the curves of her body or the gleam in her eyes. Plush lips, tinted pink by her red blood. She intrigues him. She sets his blood aflame. Sarek twines his fingers in her hair; her eyes are lidded, she's drunk on the meld. He pulls on her curls, a steady upward motion, until she's balancing on her toes, the burn in her scalp causing her eyes to water.

"Sarek," she whispers, and her voice breaks.

"You have murdered my bondmate," he replies, voice equally low. "I cannot fault your ingenuity or your fearlessness; even a Vulcan female could destroy you with little or no effort, yet you overpowered her in a very short period of time."

"I know," she murmurs. He increases the pull on her hair, and she lets out a little whimper, straightening her spine in an attempt to ease the pressure.

"Tell me how you did it."

"I dosed her with chocolate," Amanda says instantly. She blinks, and her eyes overflow. She's not crying, not really, she refuses to admit it; she's withstood worse pain than this. "It made her unsteady on her feet. It was easy."

She pauses, then admits, "I hated it."

Sarek releases her hair, and she totters on her feet for a moment, unbalanced by the sudden relief of pressure. He watches her carefully, waiting to see if she will weep or grow angry, but she does neither; she stands with her arms crossed, her posture neither meek or defiant. She is simply Amanda.

"Remove your garments," he orders her, "and sit in this chair."

She does as she is told, nibbling on her lip in nervousness; he enjoys watching her, the rasp of the fabric as she strips a pleasant sound. She leaves her clothes in a pile on the floor and goes to the chair. Sarek maneuvers her into the desired position, arms twisted around the straight back, fingers intertwined behind her; her legs he spreads, her muscles twitching under his touch,  and aligns carefully with the legs of the chair.

"What are you going to do to me?" she asks quietly.

"Be silent," he commands, and picks up a length of rope from his desk, procured especially for this event.

Sarek binds her hands and arms, patiently winding the rope in tight patterns; red marks bloom on her skin. He kneels, and proceeds to tie her legs to the chair; he can smell the musk of her sex from here, and see the glisten of the dark curls between her legs. His mind is desperately aroused, but he clamps his control down and refuses to allow his body to respond similarly. The time will come for that.

When he has finished, he stands, folds his arms, and looks at his handiwork. Amanda is looking up at him, a faint smile on her face. She's twisted into a painful position, but she seems completely at ease; she trusts him.

Sarek takes the neutronium knife from its place in a desk drawer, and displays it for her to see.

"Do you recognize this object?"

"Yes."

"You used it to slit T'Perr's throat."

"Yes."

Sarek begins to pace around her in a slow circle; she follows him with her eyes. "Honor dictates that I must spill your blood as you have spilled hers. The enemy of my bondmate is an enemy of mine." He stops abruptly, directly behind her, and lifts her mass of curls, sliding the blade against her throat. Amanda swallows, and her skin presses against the knife.

Sarek cuts a shallow slit in her flesh, and she makes a noise low in the back of her throat. Blood wells in the wound, not enough to run out. He puts his mouth by her ear, and says, "I have spilled your blood. The debt is paid."

He crosses to her front, the blade still in his hand. Red blood, so raw and fresh, just under her skin. Sarek kneels, and draws the point of the knife across her stomach; his sensitive ears pick up the whisper of her flesh as it parts, and her trembling inhalation. Blood beads and runs, staining her white skin. He presses his fingers against the wound, smears the blood across her stomach. Adds another decorative cut slanting down above her breast, mimicking the angle as he gives the wound a twin above her other breast. She's panting now, trying to bend and twist away from the knife, but too constrained to do so.

Sarek licks the trail of blood down to the droplet on her nipple; he takes it in his mouth and sucks it past his teeth, tongue teasing, and Amanda moans softly. He casts his eyes up and sees her head tilted back, baring the slight wound on her throat to the light.

He runs his fingers up her thighs; she is so unlike Vulcan women, soft where they are bony, round where they are angular. She is swollen and wanting; he presses two fingers inside her, and she sighs and cants her hips forward as much as she can, desiring more. He gives it to her, beginning a slow rhythm of shallow thrusts, tapping his thumb against her hard clit, dragging his mouth across her stomach, her blood streaked in red smears on his face.

Amanda squirms under his fingertips; she huffs instead of exhaling, now, a whine on the tail end of each breath. Her legs strain against the rope lacing, to no avail; he is not the sort of man to leave anything loose and free.

"Sarek, please - " These are the first words she's said since he bound her; he allows her to circle the edge before dropping over - but his patience is diminishing rapidly. "Oh, _Sarek_ \- "

She is quiet when she comes, much unlike their first time together, which he assumes was more of a performance than this. Her hips jerk hard under his hand, and her entire body quavers, and then she slumps nervelessly in her constraints with a sigh.

Sarek stands and she lolls her head to look at him; he offers her his fingers and she takes them in her mouth, licking the evidence of her orgasm off his hand. He closes his eyes, allows himself to bask in the sensation of her tongue against his sensitive fingers. With his other hand, he parts the front of his Vulcan robes and finally permits his blood to rush to his erection. Amanda grins at him, removes her mouth from his fingers with a pop, and cranes her neck forward to nuzzle against the side of his cock.

"It's green," she says, sounding pleased. "I thought it would be, but it's a lot more satisfying to see it." Then she licks a long line along the shaft, and takes the head in her mouth.

Sarek opens his mouth, and finds he has lost all his vocabulary except her name.

 

V.  
He takes the leg of the side she's not laying on and lifts it, slipping his hand against her sex, draping her leg across his hip. He angles himself and thrusts inside her, and Amanda's head lolls, eyelids fluttering in pleasure. His other hand lies flat against the wide expanse of her belly, possessively. His mouth on her neck, on the soft curved shell of her ear, his cock inside her, his body around her; Sarek consumes her, and she lets him. She loves it; she allows him to do anything he likes with her.

"Sometimes," she tells him as he grunts, fucking into her hard, "I feel like I'm a lyre tuned only to be played by your hands."

"You are," he replies, and finishes inside her with a spasm. Amanda shuts her eyes, feeling the child inside her stir under Sarek's palm. She wonders if her son will always have the shadow of his father's hand in his path.

"I love you," she says. She tells him this often; he's never responded in kind. Then again, he rarely behaves tenderly toward her in public; it's safer for her, to appear unwanted and unloved, a scorned woman at his side. Fewer people will want to kill her then.

She repeats herself, and he says, his voice calm, "I heard you the first time."

"Do you love me?" she asks. Maybe it's the hormones that make her like this, weak and weepy. She doesn't much like it.

Sarek presses a kiss to her shoulder, another to her neck. He doesn't reply immediately, but she knows his answer. He bites her earlobe lightly, and whispers her name.


End file.
